


You Scratch My Back

by ladyvivien



Category: James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Animal Transformation, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Mild Sexual Content, Nudity, Silly, unauthorised sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyvivien/pseuds/ladyvivien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her very own personal guard dog. She could get used to this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Scratch My Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Persiflage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/gifts).



> After Persiflage's delightful Transformation, I ended up with a plot bunny I just couldn't budge. So this is a sequel, of sorts - although it takes place in the Transformation-verse, I know she's continuing with her fic so this isn't canon ;)
> 
> It's also a thank-you for all the wonderful fic she's been writing us ;)

She strides into Q-branch, ready to give them the bollocking of a lifetime. Bond follows her, and she doesn't need to look over her shoulder to know he's smirking at the thought of someone else - especially 'those spoddy idiots in Q-branch' - in trouble for once. She shouldn't let him, really, he's got no business being here, but she hasn't forgiven them for the fact that her last meal but one was unidentifiable meat in what was supposed to be gravy. To give Tanner his due, he had gone to Waitrose. But Bond had made a detour via Borough Market and brought fresh salmon which he'd then lightly poached, cut up into small chunks and put on one of his nicest plates, so that small kindness has been somewhat overshadowed. 

Q is flailing around, smashing buttons and talking at a rate of knots and arguing with half his staff whilst the other half take his side, and the radio's on and somehow all it takes is for her to clear her throat quietly to make him jump half a foot in the air and spin around with a petrified expression on his face. He puts his hand out to steady himself, and manages to hit a switch before swearing. She's half-angry, half-amused and Q is halfway through a terrified apology before it occurs to her to trade an amused glance with Bond. Who, she realises, is no longer behind her. There's a grumpy 'woof' from somewhere near her knees, and she looks down. 

"Shit," Q breathes softly. The grizzled chocolate labrador raises his hackles and emits a low growl. It's all M can do not to laugh.

"Heel, boy," she says warningly. 

Having instructed the team to "just bloody fix it, and make sure no one else comes down here before you do unless they're expendable", she walks back up to her office, Bond at her heels. Tanner looks at the two of them as they walk in.

"I really don't want to know, do I ma'am?"

Bond barks in response, and M rolls her eyes. 

In the privacy of her office, she sits at her desk. True to form, Bond leaps up onto the other chair with a grace belying his bulk. 

"I suppose you'll be coming home with me, then," she sighs. He gives her a broad doggy grin, tongue lolling. "Very well. But no sleeping on the couch."

He spends the rest of the day sprawled at her feet, mostly on his best behaviour. He growls when the head of the ISC - Gareth Mallory, that insufferable little prick - pays a visit, but mostly he's content just to lie there, gnawing on a bone. At some point it occurs to her that, canine form or not, he can see up her skirt, so she clamps her knees together and gives him a warning glare that he meets with big, soulful eyes that she doesn't trust for a second. She remembers the warmth of him against her, before she returned to her usual form. The liberties he took - scratching her chin, stroking her fur, carrying her - and just how pleasant his hands had felt. She had planned on repressing every one of those memories, or at least acting as though she had, but she doubts Bond will show the same restraint. Which is why she fires a short email to Tanner who pops into her office around 4pm, with a package and a poorly-concealed grin.

"Ma'am," he nods. "I'll let you do the honours."

James is eyeing them both, warily. Bond, she has decided, is a ridiculous name for a dog, and she's certainly not calling him 007 in this state. Knowing him, he'll use it as an excuse to kill one of the swans outside Buckingham Palace and claim that his license to kill covers wildfowl owned by the Queen. So 'James' is the name she's had engraved on the tag dangling from the leather collar she removes from the brown paper package, and "James" is what she calls him in a stern tone when he takes one look at it and wanders to the other side of the room, slumping to the ground in a sulk. 

"I'm not taking you home without a leash. And a leash needs a collar." He meets her gaze, but doesn't move. "Now, James. Unless you want us to take a detour to the vet on the way home..."

That does it. He trots over obediently, and doesn't move when she fastens the buckle beneath his throat. She wonders if he'll be wearing it when he resumes his old shape, and tries not to think about James Bond in her bed, naked except for a collar that has her phone number and her name listed under 'owner'. 

It's a beautiful crisp autumn day, so at 5pm on the dot she buttons up her coat and clips on his leash and they stride out onto the Embankment. Crossing Vauxhall Bridge, she turns right instead of heading straight on to Belgravia,reasoning that the poor thing has been cooped up all day and is probably dying to stretch his legs. In any case, she doesn't have a garden and there are certain practicalities to be observed. James observes one, in fact, on the doorstep of Thames House, and she practically flees the scene of the crime before anyone with the clearance to recognise her catches them. She lets him off his leash in Green Park and not before, because she really doesn't trust him with the swans, and he gambols about chasing pigeons, barking joyfully and sniffing other dog's bottoms. Which is all she should have expected of him, really. He drops a stick at her feet with a questioning expression, and she throws it as far as she can. He's off like a rocket, and she's barely ten feet up the path before she's bending to pick it up again. She finds herself running after him, laughing and breathless, and by the time she reaches her front door they're both panting as hard as each other. 

She's stopped en route to get some more bones as well as fillet steak from the butchers that James in no way deserves. He sniffs everything in her living room with interest and isn't stupid enough to jump on the sofa. Instead, he collapses in front of the fire until she's prepared her dinner and puts his bowl on the floor next to her chair. They eat in companionable silence, because M is used to her own company, and Bach plays quietly from hidden speakers. After dinner, she curls up with a book and he curls up next to her feet. She pats him absently, tugging his silky ears and scratching his stomach until she forces herself to remember that this is still Bond she's touching. She wonders how long it will be before the transformation wears off, and realises that she forgot to pick up any clothes for him. All that's likely to fit is Michael's ratty old silk dressing gown that doesn't even smell like him anymore because she's worn it too often. 

Suddenly, she wants to go to bed. Not because she's tired - all she's really done today aside from recover from temporarily being a cat and handling the fact that one of her agents has (hopefully) temporarily been turned into a dog is some paperwork and a couple of dull but infuriating meetings. But she wants this whole ridiculous episode to be over, for Bond to be out of her house and for boundaries to be re-drawn. Finishing her cup of tea, she stands and stretches. 

"We can't all sleep on the floor," she informs James tartly, and starts to switch things off and set alarms. He follows her up the stairs and she pauses when they reach her bedroom door. The innocent expression in his big brown eyes - she finds with some irritation that she prefers them blue, annoyed to discover that she has any preference at all - is belied by the wagging tail. 

"One paw though the doorway and I'll neuter you myself," she warns. He does the closest thing a dog can manage to a shrug, clearly implying it's her loss, but he settles down outside her door, one ear cocked. Her very own personal guard dog. She could get used to this. 

It wouldn't be true to say that, once her teeth are brushed and night cream has been applied and she's wearing the most sexless nightwear that M&S can offer, she falls asleep soundly, feeling safer than she has done in years. Rather, she lies awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if James has returned to form yet. She'd left the dressing gown neatly folded on the landing, but she wouldn't put it past him to sleep nude just to prove a point. When she does sleep, it's to unsettled dreams of a warm body in her bed and the sensation of leather beneath her fingertips. 

At around 3, she abandons all hope of sleep and gets up to make some warm milk. It isn't until she trips over the body in the doorway and finds herself first on top of and then underneath a very naked, very well-trained 00 agent that she remembers about Bond. Once he wakes up properly and realises that he's not being attacked, he's very conscientious. He checks to see if she's hurt, apologises for being in the way, offers to go and warm her milk himself. Everything, in fact, except putting the dressing gown on. If he even notices that he's naked, it doesn't bother him. He stretches and pads downstairs, leaving her to watch open-mouthed, trying not to stare at his arse, or the fact that he's still wearing the collar. When he returns, he stands in the doorway with a mug and a smirk.

"I haven't forgotten your threat to neuter me," he explains with a glint in his eye.

She takes the mug, being very careful to keep her gaze above shoulder-height. "Then perhaps you shouldn't make it so easy," she points out. 

"You're the one who gave me a collar but no clothes," he counters. 

She's at a loss for words, and just glares at him.

"Property of M," he adds. Then, with the ghost of a blush creeping across his cheeks, he fingers the tag. "Can I - do you want this back?" 

She blinks. "It isn't as though I need it," she says slowly. 

"Don't fancy making that tug on the leash more than metaphorical?" he teases.

He's still stark-bollock naked. Acting as though they're sparring in her office fully clothed, instead of her in her pyjamas and him with his cock not entirely flaccid and swinging slightly between his muscled thighs. 

"Keep it," she snaps, "and if you want to play games, Bond, I'm sure there's a stick somewhere you could fetch."

He looks chastened, but doesn't break her gaze. His hand returns to the silver disc, running his thumb over the wording. "I am you know," he says frankly, and she feels a not entirely unwelcome flood of relief that she's looking into his eyes again. "Yours. I might not always follow orders, but I know who to take them from."

This is horribly unprofessional, quite apart from the nudity. She should tell him that he takes his orders from Six, not from her, that she's the figurehead, the embodiment of the Service, not his personal goddess. 

Instead, she just stares at the way the metal glints in the light. "Now you're allowed back on the furniture, you can have the spare room." He just nods and lopes off down the hall before she can tell him where it is. Before she falls into another fractured, restless sleep, she texts Q to tell him that Bond is human again and asks Tanner to bring some men's clothes around first thing in the morning.

When she wakes a few hours later, showers and dresses and goes to make some breakfast, she finds him collarless and reading the main section of _The Guardian_. She pours herself a cup of tea, takes the G2 and rolls it up tightly before rapping it smartly across his nose.

He swears, and spills his coffee over the paper. Looking up, he manages to pull off the hurt-puppy look even better in his current form than he had the day before.

"What was that for?" he asks, aggrieved. 

“Did I tell you you could stay for breakfast?” she demands. She wants him out of her house, some safe distance away like in front of her desk or bothering Q or on a mission in Outer Mongolia. 

“My mouth tasted of bone,” he points out sulkily. “And I thought I’d come in to the office with you, since I imagine Q will want to poke and prod me and see what else he can turn me into.”

It’s not a bad idea, she thinks as she sips her tea. Inconvenient for field work, but if they could find a way to make him less of a...distraction, she wouldn’t complain. Then she remembers the quiet companionship of last night, the way they didn’t need to talk. How bloody _nice_ it felt having him there, even if he wasn’t his usual self. She can’t pretend that this, whatever it is, is just about sex. If it was, she’d shag him and get it out of her system. As it is....

“Fine,” she sighs. She gulps down the last of her tea. They’ll start the day, navigate this somehow. She reaches over to the sofa and scoops up the length of chain, jangling it. “Walkies, James.”

He mumbles something under her breath it’s probably best she can’t hear, but the look he shoots her is an affectionate one. 

The morning air is fresh and sharp, and as she crosses the street with James at her heels she hears that treacherous little voice in her mind telling her she could get used to this, that she already is. He places a hand on the small of her back, steering her clear of a power walking businessman with terrible music blaring from his white earbuds and she finds herself smiling at the contact.

“Good boy,” she praises, and warmth flares in her belly as she hears him chuckle.


End file.
